" By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and
was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"Punch! oh, punch!
punch in the presence of the passenjare!"
Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went
forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr.------,
to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but
asked no questions. We started. Mr.------ talked, talked, talked as is
his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile,
Mr.------ said "Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard
and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!"
Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch brothers, punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"
My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, they said:
"I do not think I get your drift, Mark. Then does not seem to be any
relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet--maybe it
was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that sounded so
pathetic.
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